


Cults Are Only Cool During The Recruitment Process

by milkysterek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha Mate Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Attempted Kidnapping, CUP (Creepy Uncle Peter), Cults, Drugged Stiles Stilinski, Injured Stiles, Jacket Theft, M/M, Mating Bond, Mild Gore, Protective Derek, Scent Marking, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Snow, Sterek Reverse Bang 2017, Stiles is into it, Stiles wears eyeliner, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Topping from the Bottom, but in case you're not down with that..., insinuated attempted non-con but it's not actually that, just your average every day drugging for kidnapping purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 01:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkysterek/pseuds/milkysterek
Summary: Five times Derek gave Stiles his jacket and one time Stiles stole that shit.Plus cults.





	Cults Are Only Cool During The Recruitment Process

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to Rumi for the fantastic artwork that inspired this fic. It's amazing, [go check it out <3](http://rumi-nyo.tumblr.com/post/161983810290/entry-for-sterek-reversebang-2017-cults-are-only).
> 
> Also, this fic if for the reverse bang... Why did I forget to mention that? 

**1.**

The jeep lurched with undignified disapproval, wheels spinning on the icy ground and protesting valiantly as it was forced off road and into the preserve. Debris cracked and crunched under the aching wheels and flung out behind the vehicle, colliding with trees and underbrush. The sounds of multiple engines, of too fast tires on unsteady ground were close behind, gaining with each adrenaline filled second that ticked past. The trees that surrounded the jeep were getting closer now, creeping in on both sides as it frantically sped through the woods, searching for an escape route. 

It was no use. He would have to get out. 

Stiles slammed on the breaks and braced himself as the jeep skidded to a halt, only coming to a final stop when the right side slammed up against a nearby tree. He reached back, grabbed his baseball bat and flung open the driver's side door before clambering out and sprinting into the darkness. 

He hoped they’d leave his jeep alone, maybe if he survived this he could come back for it tomorrow.

It would have been pitch black this far into the woods if it wasn’t for the deep snow that lay like a glowing white blanket, cloaking the ground of the preserve. The quarter moon was hanging high in the sky and everything, including Stiles, was bathed in a frosty silver glow. He’d be leaving prints, he knew that, so his only hope was to somehow find his way to the Hale house and pray to God that Derek would be there. 

But of course, this far out and in his panicked state, Stiles had no idea where he was. 

Bright torchlight lit up a tree just inches from Stiles’ shoulder and he choked, stilled and tried not to be deafened by the sound of his hammering heartbeat. Careful to keep his footsteps quiet, he slowly eased back into the shadows and moved as stealthily as possible in a direction that he hoped would lead to Derek and his pack. 

He couldn’t tell how long he’d been running. Things had quietened down after a while and he thought he’d lost the men that were hunting him down but then he had tripped, fallen hard on his ankle and did something horrible to the muscles that surrounded it. His groan of pain was swiftly followed by yelling and thundering footsteps, the sound of snow crunching under thick leather boots. He hadn’t stopped sprinting since then. 

_ Surely this can’t go on much longer _ , he thought as he clambered over a fallen tree. He had to grab onto the trunk for stability while forcing his body over the obstacle, digging his hands deep into the snow in the process. His entire body was screaming with adrenaline. It rocketed through his veins, lighting him up from the inside but still, the cold seeped into his skin, chilling him to his core. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. Pretty soon whoever his attackers were would catch up with him and when they did he didn’t think he’d have enough energy to fight them off. 

He had two options. 

Option one, he could turn back, baseball bat in hand and face them head on. Take his chance with what could possibly be an army of hunters with weapons and dogs and God knows what else or, option two, he could keep running and hope beyond hope that one of the wolves would find him soon. 

He didn’t like his chances in either of those situations. 

Too caught up in his thoughts, Stiles completely missed where the snow covered ground broke away to steep ravine and suddenly he was falling, tumbling down the harsh cliff face. He tried to brace himself, his eyes closing instinctively to protect themselves against the ice that flicked up and hit him in the face. His head smashed against a rock and he brought his arms up, wrapping them around his head for protection while keeping his mouth firmly shut, desperately trying to prevent himself from crying out. The blow to his head had made him dizzy but he still managed to remain conscious, fighting against the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He continued to roll for what seemed like forever.

When he finally reached the bottom of the slope he was met with silence. 

Stiles was alone, lost in the darkness with nothing but his thin red hoodie, his signature colour making him stand out like a sore thumb or a blaring alarm yelling,  _ here he is, here’s the guy you want _ . If he was going to survive this, he needed to find somewhere to hide. He needed to ditch the hoodie and blend into the snow. His bat was gone, lost on the descent so he was without protection, too. 

It didn’t look good and, as he pulled his hoodie over his head and half-heartedly attempted to bury it in the snow, he added hypothermia to the list of things against him that night. 

 

The sun was starting to rise by the time he emerged from the treeline and staggered out into the open grounds that surrounded the Hale house. Everything in him ached, right down into his bones and all he wanted to do was throw himself down in bed. He should probably go to the hospital, or at least call by Scott’s to have Melissa check his ankle wasn’t broken or something like that. He didn’t think it was, but if he ignored it he was pretty sure he’d get one hell of a side eye when his father found out. 

He still didn’t know who those people were that were chasing him. He had hours to ponder it, all night actually, but he was coming up empty. Hunters, maybe, but in his experience, they were more likely to go after on of the werewolves in the pack - you know, someone actually important or vital. He didn’t think it was another pack because there was no way he would have been able to outrun them with his fucked ankle and normal human reflexes. It could be someone his dad had arrested, wanting to get the Sheriff back for putting them behind bars but that seemed like kind of a stretch. Stiles was stumped and, honestly, right now he didn’t care. The devil himself could be after him and that wouldn’t stop him from falling into bed the second he reached his room. 

“Stiles, what are you doing out here?”

That familiar growly voice snapped Stiles out of his exhaustion induced haze and he blinked up at the wolf with distant eyes. He was shivering, his whole body vibrating almost audibly as it hopelessly tried to conduct some heat. “People are trying to kill me.”

Derek just sighed, shrugged off his leather jacket and forced Stiles into it, picking up each of his arms and threading them through the sleeves. The jacket was warm and smelled like Derek’s cologne and the forest, which you’d think Stiles would have been sick to death of by now. He huddled into it and shuddered into the material, trying to leech out what little warmth he could. Werewolves, to the best of Stiles’ knowledge, had a higher core temperature than humans and the heat from the inside of Derek’s jacket radiated, like one of those heated blankets that you could order off the tv. 

“Must be Tuesday,” Derek grumbled and the two made their way up the drive to Derek’s house. 

 

“Are you still wearing that?” Derek asked when he came back into the living room, a steaming mug of hot chocolate grasped between his hands. He offered it to Stiles and the boy took it thankfully.

He was out of his wet clothes now, wearing some baggy sweatpants and a too big sweater that he was sure belonged to Derek. Three large, patch work quilts were piled on top of his legs and a fire was on in the corner, illuminating the room in a warm orange glow. Stiles was pretty sure he didn’t have hypothermia - he’d had it before and this didn’t feel like it - but that didn’t mean he wasn’t content to snuggle up on a comfortable sofa and be waited on hand and foot. 

He  _ was _ still wearing Derek’s jacket - no, he had taken the jacket off when he had changed, then put it back on once he was into the dry clothes. Derek raised his eyebrows and Stiles used his free hand to wrap the material around him tighter, possessively. For some reason the idea of Derek trying to take what did actually belong to the wolf back made Stiles scowl. He was warm and cosy; what sort of monster would try and take the warm and cosiness away from him?

Derek rolled his eyes and took out his cell. “I’ll call the pack, see if they’ve noticed anyone in the preserve that shouldn’t be there. You stay here and try not to die accidentally or something.”

“You need to work on your bedside manner,” Stiles grumbled but sank back into the sofa anyway, exhausted and hurting and happy to be safe. He took a sip of his hot chocolate, letting the burning hot liquid blaze a trail down his throat before placing the mug of the floor and curling up. For a moment he thought he heard Derek chuckle quietly to himself, but by that time he was already half asleep and dreaming about warm sunny beaches, millions of miles away from snow.

 

By midday, Stiles found himself back out in the unforgiving cold despite Derek’s objections. His ankle still hurt but he was pretty sure he’d just twisted it and he was once again back up to normal body temperature. After his clothes had dried on one of Derek’s radiators, he slipped back into them - back into Derek’s jacket, too - and headed out into the snow, determined to rescue his jeep. And his bat. And hopefully his hoodie as well. 

The betas had been out all morning, searching for any trace of the people who had chased Stiles but so far had come up empty. They had caught the trail near the road and were sure that the psychos were no longer in the preserve but despite Derek’s best attempts at training them to hone their senses, no one had a nose strong enough to follow it. Derek most definitely could have but for some reason, he was stubbornly refusing to leave Stiles’ side in case his attackers returned.

"I don't need my hand holding, you know," Stiles grumbled as he clambered up a steep incline. It wasn't the one he had fallen down, but his cheeks still heated with embarrassment nonetheless. He'd kind of been working on his whole stealthy Stiles thing. He wasn't as clumsy as everyone made out, however, it was only the cases - like the one from the night before/early hours of that morning - where he nearly died from his own fucked balance that the pack seemed to remember. 

Derek didn't look back at him, just continued to stride his way up the hill as if it was a pleasant stroll through a springtime field and not a hike through eight inches of pure white fuckery, planting his feet in the snow and pushing on with his hands buried in the pockets of his low-riding jeans. Stiles would feel a little guilty about making him wander around in the cold in only a henley but decided it was probably Derek's own fault for having only one jacket. Plus, he did look rather good like that. Not that he didn't look good in his jacket either - and not that Stiles paid attention to that sort of thing. 

The hill gradually let up and soon they were back on flat ground. It was a relief; Stiles' ankle wasn't as bad as it was when he first hurt it, but the angle he was walking on a few moments earlier really did make him feel like it was broken. "Are we nearly there yet," Stiles whined, for no other reason than wanting to irritate Derek. 

The wolf did turn this time, raising both eyebrows as he stuck Stiles with an expectant stare. "How am I supposed to know that? You're the one that was with your jeep last."

Stiles only rolled his eyes in response and jogged lightly until he fell in time with Derek's pace. 

At this time of day, with the sun hanging high in the midday sky, the preserve looked almost pleasant. Light bounced off of the blanketed ground making the snow look like dazzling white crystals. Icicles hung from tree branches and Stiles shivered, pulling Derek's jacket tighter around his body, trying to keep his core warm. He noticed, not for the first time, that Beacon Hills was uncharacteristically cold. The weather in the small town had always been a bit weird for California but the temperature drop that had steadily been going down for the past month was unusual, even for them. Then again, the weather was hardly the most out of the ordinary thing about Beacon Hills, all things considered. 

"What if they hurt my jeep to get back at m-" 

Before he could finish his sentence he found himself violently slammed against a tree, eyes hazing in and out of focus. He bit down on his tongue to stop from yelling out while tangy copper blood sprung to the surface of the muscle and pooled in his mouth. He gulped and the blood trickled down his throat like bitter syrup. It made him gag. 

Stiles meant to snap at Derek, meant to say something sarcastic to hide the way his head throbbed painfully but the way the wolf's shoulders were frozen stopped him cold. "Derek?" Stiles blinked and moved to step away from the tree but Derek pushed him back again, the palm of his and flat against Stiles' chest, pinning him there with little effort. It was meant as a form of restraint but Derek’s enhanced strength made Stiles feel like his ribcage was caving in and there was no doubt in his mind that there’d be a big, purple, Derek shaped bruise on his chest in the morning. 

With his body pointed away from Stiles, facing forward towards a clearing that Stiles recognised as the place his abandoned his Jeep, where the trees became too thick to continue, Stiles couldn't see Derek's face. He could, however, see the blood that soaked Derek's leg. He could see his jeans turning brown and slick and wet. He could see the steel bear trap that had embedded itself deep in Derek's flesh. 

Warm blood gushed onto the snowy ground, melting it and sinking out of sight. Stiles' stomach churned at the sight of it and he had to take a few slow breaths to stop himself from fainting. He made to move forward to help but Derek pushed him back for a third time.

"Stay. There," He growled, face pointed down toward the ground. It looked like Derek was doing some deep breathing of his own. "They've planted traps all around your car." 

As if it were nothing, Derek, with one hand still keeping Stiles firmly in place, used his other to wrap around one side of the bear trap. Stiles watched as the wolf dug his claws into his own leg to get a better grip of the metal and pulled on the trap as it begrudgingly began to open. The muscles in Derek's neck stood out while his forehead became more prominent. Within moments the trap was snapping under Derek's hand and he was throwing it across the preserve where it collided with another trap, hidden just underneath the snow. It snapped closed with a sickening clang and Stiles felt cold and this time it had nothing to do with the temperature. 

He didn't understand. Chasing him through the woods was one thing - everyone chased Stiles through the woods; his own father had once done it with police sirens blaring - but planting bear traps that would snap his legs in two was downright malicious. You would have to really hate someone to do that. You'd have to have a personal grudge. It's just... Stiles hadn't pissed anyone off. Not that he knew of, anyway. Those guys had begun tailing him after he stopped at a gas station and, being the paranoid type, he tried to lose them. That's when they started full pelt hunting him down like he was an animal or an escaped convict or something. 

Derek straightened up and took a few experimental steps, testing out his leg. He must have deemed it okay because he then took Stiles by the hand and dragged him forward, keeping a firm, clawed grip on the human. He led Stiles through the final few trees, pulling him so close on the walk that Stiles was almost pressed against his back until they reached the jeep. 

By some miracle, the keys were still inside and Stiles rounded to the driver's seat, climbing in. He rested his head against the steering wheel and took a heaving breath, letting his lungs expand and press against the lingering ache, left behind by Derek’s firm hand; his attempts at staying calm were getting more and more difficult as the day wore on. For some unknown reason, the gentle pressure of Derek’s jacket around his shoulders was acting like an anchor, the weight of it keeping him held tightly to reality and stopping him from tipping over the edge of full blown panic. He could hear Derek moving around outside, clearing more of the hidden traps away so the jeep would be able to pass through safely. Then the passenger door clicked open and slammed shut again.

"Are you okay?" He asked, without looking up. 

Derek grunted his assessment, then sighed, "There wasn't any wolfsbane on the trap. I thought there would be."

"Lucky day," Stiles mumbled and lifted his head up to press back against the soft headrest but sobered immediately when he met Derek's eyes. He looked almost haunted. "What is it?"

Derek frowned and looked away, settling his eyes out of the passenger side window. "No wolfsbane means they're not after any of the pack.”

Stiles closed his eyes a moment and took a deep breath. He understood what Derek was trying to say. They  _ weren’t _ after the pack; they were after him. 

When Derek spoke next it was so quiet and uncharacteristically soft that it made something in Stiles' body hurt. "Stiles, what did you do?"

 

The drive back home was mostly silent, which wasn't uncommon when Derek Hale was riding shotgun. They hadn't found his bat and hoodie but Derek had assured him he'd have Isaac scout around for it. That didn't exactly build Stiles' hope; he and Isaac were dicks to each other. There was no way Isaac would willingly help out and Stiles couldn’t blame him.

It was only when Stiles was climbing out of his jeep and walking towards his front door did he realise Derek was stranded without a car. He turned back to where Derek was already starting to head down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets and face closed off. 

"Hey," Stiles called and jogged over, wincing as he ankle chose that moment to remind him of his earlier antics. "Do you want to take my jeep back? I don't have school tomorrow so I don't really need it."

Derek just shook his head, eyebrows pinched, "I'm a werewolf, Stiles. I'm capable of walking home on my own."

_ Typical, _ Stiles thought. "Okay then," He rolled his eyes and wiggled his way out of the jacket that had been keeping him warm since he first broke through the treeline after his night-long ordeal. "At least take this, you're all hunched with the cold."

"I'm not co-" Derek growled in frustration and swiped the jacket out of Stiles' hands then bit out, "Thanks."

"You're very welcome," Stiles said almost wearily, eyeing the wolf. When Derek began to strut off, much quicker that his earlier pace, Stiles added under his breath. "You big weirdo."

 

**2.**

A fortnight had passed since the midnight chase incident - which was what Stiles was insisting they call the whole debacle - and what with big bads only seeming to stick around in Beacon Hills for a week tops before either being defeated or disappearing off to torment some other poor, unsuspecting town, Stiles thought it safe to get back to his everyday life. Realistically, it wouldn't be too hard to kill him so he supposed his attackers must have decided he wasn't worth it since when Friday night rolled around he was in Lydia's bedroom trying to apply eyeliner to himself and  _ not _ in a shallow grave somewhere in the preserve. 

"How do you do this shit so perfectly the first time around?" Stiles whined, wiping the black smudges off his face for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. The human gang was heading out to a bar that didn't bother to check for ID and Stiles wanted to try something different - different apparently meaning two black eyes. 

"We don't," Alison flipped through the magazine she was reading one last time before placing it down on Lydia's bed and coming over to the mirror and to Stiles' aid. "The trick is to keep cleaning and reapplying until your skin is all red and you look like you've been repeatedly punched in the face."

"That doesn't sound very sexy," Stiles mumbled and closed his eyes, letting Allison dry him off before applying his eyeliner herself. It felt weird when she did it, all wet and ticklish and Stiles had to make a conscious effort to stop from screwing his face up or itching it off. 

Footsteps shuffled over to him from the other side of the room and he felt fingers in his hair. "I don't know," Lydia mused before smoothing his hair back down. "Cora's into it. I wonder if that's a Hale thing."

Stiles ignored her sing-song speculation and opened his eyes, blinking at the trio's reflections in the mirror. "I don't suit it."

"Sure you do," Allison assured and picked up a tube of mascara, "You just need some of this."

 

By some miracle, Stiles had managed to escape Lydia and Allison's claws before they broke out the face glitter but did allow them to smear a light layer of pink tinted balm on his lips. What? It made them sparkle and it tasted like strawberries! 

The trio piled into the taxi, crushing into the backseat because no one wanted to be the one who had to sit next to a dude with face tattoos and buckled up for the ride. Stiles had offered to drive, he had no problem with playing the role of the sober friend if it meant they wouldn't get murdered and dumped in a ditch somewhere but Lydia had graciously informed him that wouldn't be possible because, apparently, he was going home with some mega hot guy instead. Well, there's nothing wrong with optimism.

Despite his tasty lip balm, he wasn't feeling too buzzed when they pulled up to the club and clambered out of the taxi, one after the other. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, making the fine hairs that trailed down his spine stand on end. He knew it was stupid. Obviously, whoever had been chasing him that night in the preserve hadn't cared enough to finish him off and the strange bubbling feeling in his stomach was simply the result of constantly having to fight for his life. It was a normal reaction that had developed over time and now ruled his life. He was sure everyone in the group had it. 

Erica couldn't watch The Hunger Games without freaking out every time Katniss picked up her bow and arrow. 

Totally normal.

 

Bright red and blue lights shone through the thick, hazy layers of fake smoke that filled the cramped and stuffy dancehall. It was underground which meant Stiles had to act as a human safety rail for the girls as they wobbled their way down the stairs on their ridiculously high heels. He was pretty sure Lydia had twisted her ankle but she wasn't admitting to that anytime soon, instead choosing to hobble through the sweaty crowds, worming her way towards the bar. 

That left Stiles and Allison ambling in the corner, looking out over the sea of wet and grinding bodies. It was awkward. Allison had only recently called things off with Scott for the thousandth time and it wouldn't be long until the two were back together, realistically,  and Stiles was Stiles; neither of them was really capable of getting a date on their own - not without Lydia who was so loved up with Cora that she probably didn't have time to act as the pair's wing woman anymore. 

Plus, Stiles and Allison weren't really friends. They didn't hate each other or anything but it wasn't like they spent all that much time hanging out on their own. They also didn't have all that much to talk about other than how they were both fond of a crooked jawed werewolf - but Allison wasn't anymore. It was just... uncomfortable. 

"So..." Stiles started, not sure what to say without Lydia there to drive the conversation, "Thanks for the eyeliner stuff. My eyes look big now."  _ My eyes look big now? _ He mentally cursed himself and folded his arms for protection, pushing back to lean against the wall behind them. He immediately regretted it; sticky walls are never a good thing. 

Allison smiled brightly and stopped fiddling with her clutch which she had been picking at since Lydia's departure. "Oh, you're welcome! It really suits you," She nodded encouragingly, cheeks dimpling and Stiles smiled back before looking away again, casting his eyes towards the bar. 

It wasn’t long before Lydia came shoving her way back through the crowd, elbowing groping guys out of her way. She had three brightly coloured drinks that Stiles would bet his life would taste disgusting balanced obscurely between her palms. She handed them out, one by one, then took a deep, calming breath. 

"I forgot how much I hate clubs," She frowned, taking a sip from her pink straw and used her free hand to smooth down her dress that had gotten crumpled during the struggle. "And before either one of you says it: yes, we did have to come."

Stiles tasted his drink and tried not to show how horrified his taste buds were. He gulped, trying to chase the taste away before speaking, "I wasn't going to say that."

Lydia smiled, wide and wicked. "Good, because we're getting you laid tonight." Spinning on her heels, she pointed one manicured finger at a guy who was leaning against a pillar, typing away on his phone. The man's face was illuminated by the light of his screen which made his eyes shine an astonishing blue. Stiles liked blue. 

Actually, Stiles liked a lot of what he was seeing. 

The man wasn't traditionally handsome, more scruffy than anything else, but there was an edginess to his look that drew Stiles in and made him want to learn more. From what he could tell, he was toned and muscular, a little more defined by what Stiles was into but he wasn't one to complain, not when that guy could most likely very easily pick Stiles up and throw him around - pin him to walls, slam him down on hard surfaces, bend him in two; you get the gist. 

"You think he's cute," Allison nudged him and Stiles blushed, pushing her back on the arm without any real meaning behind it. 

"I don't," Stiles defended, still staring at the man who was - oh god - who was looking up at him. "Okay, yeah, maybe I do a little."

Lydia took another sip of her drink and placed one hand on her hip with a smirk. “He’s been staring at you since we walked in; I could see him from the bar.”

Blue eyes bore into Stiles' soul and he found himself becoming a little lightheaded which was kind of weird since he didn't think he was the type to fall head over heels just from one look. He blinked a few times and swallowed. The man was still making searing eye contact with him. 

"You should go talk to him," Allison whispered, giving him a light push to get him moving and once he started he found he couldn't stop. 

He forced his way through the crowd, not giving even half a fuck about the grumbling clubbers who he was definitely pissing off. Distantly, he could hear Lydia yell, "And don't come back until tomorrow morning!"

He didn’t have plans to. 

 

Lucas was captivating. Stiles wasn’t one hundred percent sure of what he was saying most of the time but the movement of his pale lips and the way his pink tongue would dart out to moisten them as he spoke was enough to have Stiles swaying where he stood. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been talking - well, Lucas talking, Stiles listening - and frankly, he didn’t care. All he could think about was getting out of there, being dragged away by the rough looking man and bent over whatever surface they came in contact with first. He needed him - needed him like air - and was willing to do anything to get it. He’d ask if he could; he’d get down on his knees and beg for Lucas’ cock but for some reason, his mouth hadn’t gotten the memo. 

He tried to say something, say anything, but nothing came out. It didn’t worry him too much; he was content to just stare at Lucas as he spoke… whatever he was speaking. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t really hear properly… but that didn’t matter either. 

“Want to get out of here?” Now that he heard. 

Stiles nodded dumbly, able to do little less. 

It was easy for him to follow - to allow himself to be taken by the hand and dragged through the onslaught of bodies and into the toilets. 

By the time he heard the stall door lock, Stiles wasn’t even sure his eyes were open. Everything was so fuzzy and dark and he felt so, so heavy. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep or get fucked - either would be great and I looked like he’d be getting one of those opportunities pretty soon. 

Lucas pressed him against the rickety cubicle wall and leant against him, crushing Stiles with his weight. His body was hot and heavy like a brick wall that was slowly caging him in, squeezing the life out of his useless body. Stiles went pliant, letting himself relax into whatever was about to be brought his way. Distantly he was sure he felt something familiar, something like panic, prickling at the base of his spine but it didn’t register. It wasn’t anything he could act on - not now. Why would he want to, anyway? With Lucas’ lips on his, opening him up and taking, scorching his name on the inside of Stiles’ mouth he was unable to come up with one good reason to stop.

But that prickling feeling kept nagging at him, slowly but steadily getting stronger and stronger as it worked it’s way up his spine. It was uncomfortable and Stiles wanted it to go away - to leave him alone and stop trying to ruin his night. It didn’t stop. 

Something moved - maybe it was him? - and then a cold, flat surface was resting against Stiles’ warm cheeks. It was cooling in a way that Stiles hadn’t realised he’d been craving. He melted into the comforting feeling and was about to let go, to fully allow himself to drift away from consciousness when that nagging sensation turned into a full on scream. 

It was instinctual, like his body had done a factory reset back to it’s most primal of reactions and Stiles new he had to fight. By some miracle, the fact that he was in danger had finally gotten through to him and though he still didn’t have it in him to sober to his attack, he was still willing to give it all he had. 

“Stay still kid,” Lucas ordered in a voice that somehow managed to be not all that threatening. Stiles felt something plastic attempt to wrap around his wrists, a zip tie, he thought, and kept his wrists as far away from each other as possible to stop them being tied up. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

_ Yeah, right,  _ Stiles thought,  _ that’s why you’re tying me up in a club bathroom. _

“No, really,” Lucas assured, like he was reading Stiles’ thoughts. “I just needed to make you more… pliant - for the transportation. I’m really not going to hurt you.”

Stiles struggled against Lucas’ bruising grip and his stomach churned as he desperately tried to fight off the haziness that was clouding his mind. Lucas had done something to make him ‘pliant’ but he couldn’t have slipped anything into his drink; Lydia would never take her eyes off a glass and Stiles hadn’t had the thing long enough to lose track of it. Now that he remembered, that foggy feeling had started to wrap it’s way around Stiles’ mind way before he had even gotten close to Lucas which struck having his drink tampered with in person off the list too. 

That left the supernatural element and now Stiles was really starting to panic. 

A surge of adrenaline raged through Stiles’ system, igniting his fight or flight instincts and he took action. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to fight Lucas off - there was a noticeable size difference between them and Stiles had no weapons, nothing he could manipulate to help him out - so he chose the latter option. 

For a brief moment, he let himself go limp as if playing dead. It did it’s job and the second he felt Lucas’ grip loosen by just a fraction, he kicked down hard with his right leg. The bottom of his shoe collided with Lucas’ ankle, grinding it down and taking it out. It wasn’t much, but it gave Stiles the edge that he needed, if only for a second, and he lunged for the door. 

 

It was very cold - that was the first thing Stiles noticed when he came to. His whole body ached and it felt like someone was driving two spikes through his ear drums, forcing them together until they met in the middle. He was wet, too, he thought. Yeah, his arms were definitely wet and sore and really, really cold. 

Freezing actually. It was that burning sort of cold you get when your bare flesh is in the snow…

Stiles wrenched his eyes open and was met with a pair of panicked green ones staring back. Lydia was terrified and that was enough to startle Stiles into full consciousness; if Lydia was scared like that something must have been seriously wrong. 

“What’s going on,” Stiles asked - or tried to ask. His mouth didn’t want to work properly and the noise that came out of him was more slurred grumbling than words. 

Before he could react, Lydia was yanking him up from the floor and muttering a 'He'll live' under her breath. She slung his arm over his shoulder to support his weight and dragged him through the snow towards cover. 

Bullets were flying everywhere; that was the second thing Stiles noticed. Quick little bursts of air whooshed past his face and Stiles had been involved in gunfights enough to know exactly what those whooshes were. He ducked down with Lydia, trying to get his bearings while the redhead furiously typed something out on her phone. 

Darting his eyes around, he spotted Scott off to the side who was running towards Allison, arms open wide like in some sort of romance novel. Stiles hardly thought this was the time but then again maybe he would think differently if he had someone to run with open arms towards of his own. It definitely wasn't time for  _ that _ .

Okay, think. What had happened?

He was in the club with Allison and Lydia. Lydia wanted to get him laid. He saw that guy and... and then everything went fuzzy. It was like his mind had simply switched itself off. He was still conscious and aware but somehow completely out of his own control. He didn't feel drugged; Stiles had been drugged before on numerous occasions; people were always trying to kill him. No, this wasn't like that. It was more... hypnotic. Like he was under...

A spell. 

"Check the bestiary for witches, incubi, anything along those lines," He ordered and pushed himself up a little so he could peer through the window of the car they were hiding behind. 

"I'm on it. Deaton's preparing the clinic to treat the wounded."

Cora was half through the back exit of the club when a man with his face covered charged at her, something shining and sharp held in his hands. Quick as lightning, Cora leapt up and grabbed onto the top of the doorway, digging her claws into the wood and kicking both legs out like a battering ram. The crack of the connect with the man's head was sickening and he tumbled backwards, collapsing onto the white snow, unconscious or worse. 

A cry of pain drew Stiles' eyes away and he looked over to find Jackson cradling his arm, eyes blazing blue. Despite his injury, he lunged at his attacker and made quick work of him, twisting his arm until it snapped in a way that would have made Stiles's stomach churn if he wasn't pumped full of adrenalin. If those bullets were laced with wolfsbane, which Stiles was willing to bet his jeep they were, they would have to act fast. Who knew what poison could be coursing through his wolves veins at that very moment. 

Running on instinct, Stiles left his protective cover and darted out towards Boyd who was trying to fight four guys off on his own. He was faring well, better than Stiles would have expected from the sheer number of opponents but he took a pretty nasty blow to the head and Stiles acted. There was some loose piping by the side of the building and it came away easily in Stiles' hands. He raised the weapon and before one of Boyd's attackers knew what was coming, he forced the pipe down on the back of the man's vulnerable neck, sending him crumpling to the ground.

He was still conscious, just dazed and taken off guard but just as Stiles was about to rain down another blow, a strong, barrier like arm wrapped itself around his middle and hoisted him up from the floor. His attempts to fight back were no good and honestly, he was a little appalled by how none of his friends were coming to his aid. Ungrateful little basta-

" _ Stop squirming _ ."

Stiles would know that growl anywhere. Even through the still slightly there haze that clouded his mind, he could tell that that was the growl of one unimpressed alphawolf. Stiles stopped struggling and let himself be dragged away. A year ago, he would have protested - yelled and screamed to be let back into the fight; he could take care of himself. Now, however, he knew better. Sure, he could hold his own and wouldn't for a second let any of the pack think differently but Stiles was aware that sometimes Derek had a good reason for his actions. He wasn't stupid enough to throw a tantrum without hearing the man out. 

"You can put me down now," Stiles bit, wriggling until Derek reluctantly dropped him onto his feet. "What's your damage, Hale?"

Derek didn't take whatever bait Stiles was laying out there and grabbed the boy by the shoulders, turning his body so that they were face to face and eye level. "Listen to me," The wolf growled, his claws threatening to break through the thin fabric of his shirt. There was something about Derek's eyes, something in them that made Stiles' blood run cold. He was scared and Stiles stared back like a deer in the headlights. "We need to get out of here."

"But the pack-" Stiles started just as a gust of wind whipped past him. Derek slammed his eyes closed and snarled, digging his claws in deeper. 

"Will be fine. It's not the pack they're after."

Stiles bristled and pushed Derek away, realisation dawning on him. It was the people from the woods. He wasn't rid of them like he'd thought. Stiles took a step back and clenched his jaw tightly. 

"Forget it," He snapped. "I'm not scared of them and I'm not leaving my friends here to fight my battles while I go off and hide!"

A flash of white teeth drew Stiles' eyes down to Derek's mouth and the wolf huffed, a smug sort of half laugh that made Stiles’ blood boil. "You say that like you have a say in the matter."

Stiles stared, challenging Derek. "What are you going to do, drag me kicking and screaming?"

 

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" Stiles yelled from where he was dangling limply over Derek's shoulder. He didn't know how long he'd been hanging there, staring at Derek's ass which wouldn't have been such a hardship if he wasn't in the process of being kidnapped. He hated Derek. He hated all of him, including his perfect ass but especially the whole werewolf strength thing that meant no matter how hard he thrashed about and how much of his dignity tapered off and disappeared into the cold night air, Derek's vice-like hold never faltered. 

He was trapped. 

The ass view would be his consolation prize. 

"I hate you," Stiles sighed and watched as the last of his will leached out of his skin and went the same way as his dignity. 

Derek's eyes were far out of Stiles' view but he knew they were rolling. "So you've said."

His life was a mess. People were out to kill him which wasn't at all new but these ones were really determined. There was a whole shoot out and everything. He also might have been drugged and sure, he understood now that Lucas was tying him up for his other attackers to, what, kill him? But that didn’t discount the trauma of thinking he was about to be supernaturally date raped for a hot minute which he would take the time to freak out over later once his head was in the right place and, on top of that, he was dangling from the shoulder of a werewolf that he had a massive boner for - not at that moment, thankfully. Just in general - and was staring directly at his ass. Well, most of his ass. His jacket was covering a bit of it and Stiles ran his fingers along the material and definitely didn't close his eyes when he took a deep breath of the jacket's scent. 

This was ridiculous.

Sighing, Stiles pushed himself up with what little strength he had left in his arms. "Can you put me down now? I'm cold and you're making me dizzy."

Derek didn't say anything but did as he was asked, swinging Stiles like he weighed nothing until he was back on his feet. 

Stiles brushed himself down and folded his arms over his chest, looking away. He wasn't as mad as he should have been but that was mainly because he hadn't had a second to digest the night yet. He was sure he'd be more pissed in the morning. Right now, though, he just wanted to get home and warm up. Maybe he'd take a nice long bath and get the stink of that creepo Lucas off his skin. He felt sick just thinking about him. 

Something smooth and warm pressed gently against his arm and Stiles looked up, frowning in confusion. 

"Here," Derek ordered and pressed his jacket more firmly against Stiles' bare skin. 

Stiles blinked, swallowed and took the jacket. He slid the familiar material onto his body and zipped it up, letting himself be engulfed by the scent of the pack house, the preserve and Derek's sweat from the fight. That was probably a weird thing to be into but the body heat that Derek had passed on through the material had Stiles way too blissed out to care. He still tried to keep up his pouting brat routine but he had a feeling it wasn't working - if the small, smug smile that hesitantly edged it's way onto Derek's features was anything to go by. 

"What?" Stiles mumbled but it wasn't really a question. 

Derek shook his head in reply and dropped the smile before starting to walk again. 

It was only now that Stiles noticed where they were. He'd expected Derek to take him straight home, to throw him through his bedroom window and tell him to stay like a good little human but instead, he realised that they were on a trail in the preserve. A trail that led to the Hale house. 

"Why are you taking me back to your place?" He asked, trying not to be so obvious with his snuggling into the leather. 

Unexpectedly, Derek spluttered and whipped his head around in Stiles' direction with wide eyes. "What?" he demanded. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows and stared. What was with that guy? This was probably the first time Stiles had ever seen a grown man's ears light up. He didn't even know that was possible. "I wanted to know why we're at your house instead of mine." He blinked and added, "You weirdo."

Derek glared and paced quicker up towards the house, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It was the perfect impression of a petulant, huffy child though Stiles wasn't sure why he was performing it. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're covered in blood. Would you like to explain that one to your dad? I'm sure he'd be in such a hurry to let his underage son hang out at a bar where he was nearly kidnapped or worse-" 

Derek trailed off with a grumble and opened the front door to the house, holding it for Stiles who passed through with the wide eyes of a man who was about to be trapped in a building with a crazy person. 

"Wow, Lassie, you sure are cranky tonight," Stiles sang, "Did you skip your afternoon nap or something?"

"I'm not-! You know what? I'm going to let that one go." The wolf said and stalked off to the kitchen. 

"That's very big of you!" Stiles yelled back, leaning forward as if that would help project his voice further. It was stupid; Derek would have heard him even if he'd been muttering under his breath - something that he'd learned from experience.

Stiles walked into the living room and peeled the jacket off, grimacing at the state of his clothes. He really was covered in blood, from head to toe. He wasn't sure how he had missed that and guessed the bleeding must have happened when he was out cold. That whole thing was kind of disturbing. He had no idea what had transpired during his unconscious period and had equally no idea how he had travelled from the bathroom stall to the snow covered ground outside of the bar. He vaguely remembered making a break for it after fucking with Lucas’ ankle, but he figured he mustn’t have gotten too far before he was caught.

When Derek finally joined him, he was carrying a small, red first aid kit under his arm and some damp towels. Stiles was by the fire. He'd lit it without causing himself any major injuries which was pretty impressive considering last time he nearly took Erica out. He had a hand shaped bruise on his arm for a week after that incident. 

"Come here," Derek ordered, sitting down on the couch and popping open the first aid kit. Stiles just stared at him, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "Come here,  _ please _ ."

"Fine."

He sat down beside Derek and pulled the jacket back into his lap, folding it uneasily as something to do with his hands. It wasn't all that often that Derek touched him in a way that wasn't throwing him into walls or dragging him away from danger. He wasn't really sure what to do or where to look when Derek's fingertips gently brushed over the skin of his neck, checking for any injuries. 

It wasn't like this had never happened before; there had been a few instances over the years where Derek had been assigned with the task of patching up the human but it still managed to make something in Stiles stir uneasily. With Derek so close, sometimes literally breathing down his neck, it would be easy for the alpha's senses to catch a whiff of Stiles' arousal and that... that would be worse than death. 

Derek worked carefully, tracing his fingers over all of Stiles' exposed skin as if he needed double confirmation from both his sight and his touch that the boy was okay. He didn't think any of the blood was his. He hurt but it wasn't an open wound kind of hurt and he was pretty sure Derek should have known that from scent alone. Even if he  _ could _ tell, Derek didn’t show signs of stopping. Stiles’s skin tingled and flushed when Derek dragged the flat of his palm down his chest and moved to over his ribs, checking them for damage. It made something deep inside him  _ ache _ and, though he was ashamed to admit it, there was no denying the sexual effect Derek’s tender touches were having on him. 

"I think I'm okay, dude," Stiles cleared his throat and laughed weakly but Derek was persistent, lifting his both the human's arms and running his hands along the exposed flesh, rigorously checking for any kind of lump or bump or papercut - whatever.

Once he was finally convinced that Stiles was in one piece, he brought the damp towel up to Stiles' cheek and began to clean. Stiles hadn't realised there was blood on his face and the lack of any open wounds on his own body meant that that face blood belonged to someone else. 

Gross.

He hoped it was Lucas’ though the likelihood of the blood being from one of his wolves was probably and unsettlingly higher. 

The towel was warm and the slow, rhythmic strokes were soothing in a way that made Stiles want to lean forward into the gentle pressure and let sleep take him. The fire was crackling in the grate in front of them and the whole room was consumed with the pleasant heat. It would be easy to sleep here with Derek's scent around him keeping him safe inside his den. 

Without thinking, Stiles lifted Derek's folded jacket to his nose and sniffed, letting the scent of wood and leaves and Derek overpower him. Derek's scent alone was enough to make every last one of Stiles' worries from the day drift away and leave him feeling lax and calm and safe. He barely noticed Derek's hand still and the soothing circling motions stop. Stiles opened his eyes and met Derek's, watching the wolf with confusion while he stared back with wide eyes. "What?"

Derek cleared his throat and looked away before standing. "I don't think that spell's worn off yet."

“Maybe you should keep an eye on me, then,” Stiles offered, surprising himself. He was still a little too out of it to be embarrassed by his boldness so instead, he toed off his shoes and pulled his feet up onto the sofa, resting them beside him. “We wouldn’t want me getting kidnapped again.”

“No,” The wolf gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down; Stiles watched it with fascination. “We wouldn’t.”  

 

**3.**

It turned out the blood on his face had gotten there when Cora had ripped Lucas' throat out over the top of Stiles' unconscious body just seconds after Stiles had made his great escape and had been quickly taken back down again - his ankle kick hadn’t done as much damage as he had hoped; he was only a little devastated about that fact. The she-wolf had actually seen Stiles do a half somersault through the air and fall flat on his ass before promptly passing out. That wasn't exactly what he had expected to hear first thing on Monday morning but he was coping. Lydia was more concerned about how Cora had wiped the blood from her mouth then immediately transferred the sticky substance onto her top. Apparently, Lydia had no idea how she managed to put up with a girlfriend who acted like she was raised in a barn. Stiles had chimed in with a 'Raised by wolves?' but it got no laughs. 

His weekend had been strange, to say the least. After the street fight outside of the bar, Derek had taken Stiles back to his place and played doctor - unfortunately, not the sexy kind (although, at least on Stiles’ end, things did  _ feel _ kinda sexy). Then Stiles just kind of... stayed. His dad was working and wouldn't have noticed and Stiles had always liked the pack house. 

He knew he wasn't pack - not really - but when he was curled up in the spare bedroom or sitting by the fire with Isaac and Cora he kind of felt like pack. Allison thought he was torturing himself and tried to cheer him up by saying they were in their own human pack and it didn't matter that they were outsiders. It was a nice gesture but it didn't lessen the empty feeling he got in his stomach whenever his friends would ditch him for super secret werewolf duties, meetings in the preserve or movie nights. 

Still, his weekend with Derek was nice - quiet, but nice - and Stiles wasn’t about to make himself feel bad about enjoying it. He hadn’t really seen Derek all that much but when he did they were pleasant with each other. Derek spent the majority of his time hunched over various books that he wouldn’t let Stiles read but whenever the boy looked up, Derek’s eyes were nearly always on him. He kind of felt like the alpha really was keeping an eye on him and not in a joking ‘you’re always nearly getting yourself killed’ kind of way, either. The warmness that Stiles got in his belly when thinking about that was probably weird. 

But, again, it was nice. 

"Why are you wearing Derek's jacket?"

Stiles startled out of his thoughts to find Scott stood behind him and Lydia, frowning in that confused way he sometimes got when tackling complicated math problems or trying to figure out what to text Allison back. He didn't look happy and Stiles wasn't surprised. He and Derek were on much better terms but Stiles doubted his best friend was thrilled by the scent of Derek's den that must have saturated his clothes.

He looked down at himself. He hadn't really noticed putting it on, it had been kind of an unconscious action. Hopefully, Derek wouldn't mind. Besides, it was cosy inside and he thought he looked cute in it - especially when his hands disappeared into the sleeves, kinda like he was drowning in the fabric. 

Stiles shrugged and looked back up, "I lost my hoodie."

"You have other hoodies."

"Not at Derek's he doesn't," Lydia chimed in with a smug smile and a calculating glint in her eyes. Stiles really hated her sometimes. He'd make sure to thank her for that one later.

The look that crossed Scott's face wasn't one Stiles got to see too often now that he was branching out in the friendship department. That was his 'someone is hitting on Allison' face and while Stiles wasn't sure why the 'someone is hitting on Allison' face applied to this setting, he did know that it was best to defuse the situation before the entire school was exposed to a particularly growly outburst.

"Why were you at Derek's?"

Stiles waved his arm out, trying to bat away his friend who was doing far too much of that sniffing stuff for Stiles’ liking. "Down boy," He smirked and pushed Scott a little more firmly until the guy finally seemed to snap himself out of it. "Am I right in thinking I saw you and Allison running into each other's arms on Friday?" 

Scott took the bait and blushed before listing off all of that night's events that lead to him and Allison reuniting in bed together where they stayed for the entire weekend. The topic of Derek didn't come up again, at least not from Scott and for a little while Stiles got to enjoy being out of the hot seat. 

As far as he was aware, the pack didn't know about his super massive crush on their alpha but that didn't mean that Stiles wouldn't give his right arm to avoid even stumbling onto that particular conversation. He was already pretty sure Lydia had a clue but she wasn't the type to gossip so he was in the clear on her end - unless she decided to perform her own little interrogation. It was Scott that he worried about. Despite their differences, they were still best friends and Scott didn't like Derek all that much, especially when it came to Stiles spending time with him. Scott would be pretty hurt if he found out about Stiles' crush and he didn't want that to happen. 

Also, having everyone know about his big ol’ werewolf boner would be humiliating to the point that he would definitely curl up and die - so there was that reason for keeping it off topic, too. 

 

Erica was smirking when she planted herself down in the seat opposite him at lunch. Her ruby red lips with their dagger sharp edges curved up wickedly and she leant forward, resting on one elbow with her chin cradled delicately in her open hand. The beta's nails were almost as threatening as her claws and Stiles gulped, eyeing his reflection that shone back at him in the glossy surface. 

"A little birdy told me you've been rooming with our alpha," She sang, batting her lashes in a way that could never be mistaken for innocence. 

Stiles groaned and looked down at his lunch. Why, oh why, had he not taken Lydia up on her offer to study in the library. "We were not rooming. I stayed in the spare bedroom."

"Very cosy."

"What do you want, Erica?"

"Information, juicy details, something to live for..." 

Stiles stared at her. 

"Come on," She pouted, throwing herself back in the plastic lunch seat and crossing her leather clad arms over her chest. "You owe me at least one dirty secret after I went and saved your life the other day."

Frowning, Stiles put down his sandwich. "What are you talking about?"

Blonde hair flipped over Erica's shoulder and she rolled her big, brown eyes. "I was the one that pulled that creeper off you. Sure, Cora did a lot of the hands-on work, but I was the one who dragged your bony ass to safety.  If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead in a ditch by now."

Stiles' frown deepened. He still couldn't remember how he got from the bathroom to the alley behind the bar but he'd just kind of assumed Lydia or Allison had been the ones to get him out of there, especially since Lydia was basically on top of him when he came to. It raised a lot of questions and if it was possible, Stiles’ frown grew deeper still. He’d also thought that maybe one of the (human) girls had realised something was up and called for reinforcements when they couldn’t find him… but then again, Lydia had wanted Stiles to hook up and go home with a guy; him leaving would have been expected and wouldn’t have raised suspicion. Erica's version of events made even less sense. She wasn't even at the bar on Friday. In fact, he was pretty sure her Facebook had said she was with Boyd doing 'grown up' things.

"Then how did you know I was in trouble?" He asked, too intrigued to eat the rest of his meal. When he pushed his tray away, Erica snagged his orange and started peeling. 

"Hmm," She popped an orange segment into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. "You'll have to ask Derek that one. He's very intuitive when it comes to you."

Stiles groaned, "Erica."

"It's none of my business!" She raised her hands in surrender. "I'm just a simple foot soldier. I read a text that says save your ass; I save your ass. That's all I know."

Huffing, Stiles crossed his arms and sagged, "I find that hard to believe."

Erica made a noise and waved one of her hands in front of Stiles' face to get his attention despite the fact that she obviously already had it. "Speaking of texts," She said, "Derek sent one last period. We're having a pack meeting tonight. He says you better be there or he's going to pull your toenails out and make you eat them."

Spluttering, Stiles sat upright and took a drink of his apple juice to calm his throat. "He said that?"

"Not all of it," The beta shrugged and stood, plopping the remains of Stiles' orange back down on his tray. "He said I could add my own threat. I thought that one was creative."

Stiles nodded numbly. Derek was inviting him to a pack meeting? He knew it would be about what had happened on Friday so maybe they needed his witness statement or whatever but still... he kind of felt hopeful. He wasn't quite sure why he felt hopeful but he definitely felt it. The fact that he was openly smiling about the invite in front of Erica didn't even bother him that much; he could handle her mockery. 

"Oh, and Stiles," Erica's voice brought him back to the present and he looked up at her. She was grinning in a way that could only be described as predatory. "If you keep letting Derek scent mark you like that, people are going to get ideas."

With that embarrassing little gift, Erica sauntered off to wherever the hell she went and Stiles tried desperately to ignore the way his cheeks blazed. 

 

Grit and dirt crackled under the jeep's tires. It was dark out despite it not being all that late and the fresh snow glowed in the moonlight. Stiles wondered if they should be checking out the weird weather conditions but one thing at a time; he still had a group of who knew whats running around after him. The continuously decreasing temperature was the least of his worries. 

The Hale house stood out amongst the gloom as a beacon of warmth against the cold front. It was a sharp contrast from how it used to be and seeing the derelict building returned to its pre-fire grandeur made Stiles' chest feel full. The once ash-cloaked front lawn, though covered by ice at the moment, flourished with green life during the summer. Moulding and rotten wood had been torn away leaving elegant white and duck egg blue walls in their place and each and every window that had once been blown out by the fire's power was decorated with pulled closed curtains, containing the yellow glow of life inside. The Hale house had come far since the first time Stiles had stumbled through the woods, following Scott not long after he'd first received the bite and so had Derek. He wasn't quite sure where he stood with the pack and he often went back and forth on whether or not he thought they saw him as one of their own, but none of that changed the strange sense of pride he got whenever they came together and worked as a team. 

And that was something he'd get to watch tonight. 

The front door was unlocked as it usually was when the pack was home and Stiles stepped into the hallway, knocking dregs of snow off his shoes against the 'batcave' welcome mat that Stiles had given Derek as a housewarming gift. He hadn't expected Derek to actually use it and he pushed down the feeling it sparked in the pit of his stomach whenever he saw the prickly thing. 

"You're late," Derek reprimanded as soon as Stiles set foot in the living room. He sat down next to Scott who was entwined with Allison and prepared his best eye roll for his telling off. Derek was wearing his red sweater, the ones with the thumb holes that made him look like like a soft kindergarten teacher instead of the pointy-toothed horror movie creature he pretended to be. No matter how hard the alpha tried, there was no way Stiles was taking him seriously in that sweater; he could cross his arms and pout all he wanted. 

Leaning back into the sofa and resting his head back, he smiled cockily up at Derek. He was wearing the leather jacket again and combined with his plain red tee, he hoped the outfit was helping him pull off just the right level of  _ prick _ . "Boyd asked me to send him some dirty pics. I had to wait for the sun to set so I could get just the right lighting."

"I hate you."

"Thanks, buddy," He grinned back at Boyd who was tucking into a bag of chips, thoroughly unaffected by Stiles' attempts at humour. 

Derek didn't look too impressed either. 

"If you're not going to take this seriously you might as well leave," Derek said loftily as he stalked over to the bookcase. It was filled with ancient texts about all manner of creatures and you'd be hard pressed to find a beast that wasn't documented on those shelves. Derek took down one of the books - a red one with a battered spine and loose pages spilling out of it - and placed it on the coffee table. Lydia went to reach for it and got a growl in return. She gave in but not without shooting a scowl in Derek's direction. "I thought you wanted to be included."

Jackson snorted and Stiles felt his cheeks threatening to redden. Instead, he glared back at Derek. 

He was about to open his mouth and say something sarcastic and snappy back when he the most infuriating voice Stiles had ever heard cut in. 

"Now, now, nephew," Peter purred, quite literally appearing out of the shadows like some cartoon villain. He had been upstairs, probably doing something creepy like going through the girls' underwear drawers or taking selfies in his v-necks. Both were equally stomach-churning. "What would your mother say if she knew you were talking to our dear Stiles like that."

The look that Derek offered his uncle in return was purely murderous. 

All eyes were on the ground while both Derek and Peter tried to stare each other to death or something dramatic and Hale-like like that. Stiles didn't really know what was going on and by the looks of it neither did Lydia or Allison. Allison seemed concerned and even made eye contact with Stiles to try and get some kind of clarification of the meaning behind the betas' silence. He could only shrug in reply. He had no idea why everyone had suddenly become so choked up and he definitely had no idea what the hell Derek's deceased mother had to do with it. It wasn't like he was going to bring it up. He might have a loud mouth but he didn't have a death wish. 

He looked at Lydia, silently asking if she'd be the one to get to the bottom of things but she was busy picking an Instagram filter. He made a mental note to like her pic later. She probably knew what the deal was anyway and she would have told him if she was going to. It obviously wasn't juicy enough for her to care or for her to concern Stiles with. 

Peter was the one to break first, casting his eyes away before dropping them down onto the book on the coffee table. "Oh, is that for me?" He tilted his head in question. 

Derek looked like he was counting to ten in his head very slowly. 

"Take it and go," Derek ordered and watched with sharp eyes as Peter did as he was told. 

"You can bitch and whine all you want, Derek, but you know I'm right and I don't need any ancient text to tell me that," The older wolf smirked, bright teeth flashing before he sauntered away but not before leaning over the back of the couch so that his face was close to Stiles' ear. Derek gave a warning growl. "Good luck, Stiles. I hope your little cult doesn't kill you."

Stiles shuddered more from having Peter Hale in close proximity than the threat of a murderous-

"What did he mean,  _ cult? _ " Stiles asked, lifting his head up to look at Derek so quickly that his eyes blurred in and out of focus, trying to adjust the shift in positions. 

Derek looked tired and Stiles kinda felt sorry for him. It must be hard having your creepy uncle not be dead. He wasn't even sure why Peter was still hanging around. Derek had chased him off months ago for what they all had thought would be the final time but suddenly he was back and everyone was acting like it was normal. He supposed it was, considering. 

"They're not supernatural," Lydia put down her phone and crossed one leg over the other, pointing her body towards Stiles. "At least, most of them aren't. That guy who seduced you at the club was a siren, we think, but the rest are almost definitely human..." She paused and tilted her head. "Or just really, really stupid. It could be either."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because they shot us with normal bullets," Jackson sighed like this whole thing was the most tedious experience of his life. It was nice to know where he ranked on Jackson's list of priorities - not that his position was ever actually in question. "We went to Deaton after the fight just in case but we were all already healed. No wolfsbane or anything."

"Humans without much knowledge of the supernatural, then?" Allison asked, valiantly pulling her lips away from Scott's so she could actually talk. It was a great sacrifice and it was noted. 

Lydia shrugged and picked up her phone again, dragging Cora over by her shoulder and snapping a photo of them both, "Or just stupid." She turned to glare at her girlfriend. “Why do you always look miserable in our photos?”

"Okay, the them being human stuff makes sense but why does Peter think it's a cult. I don't like listening to that creep as much as the next guy, but he is usually right about this shit," Stiles reasoned and turned his speculatory gaze back on the alpha.

Derek's biceps bulged with the tensing of his crossed arms. "There are certain cults out there that believe that human sacrifices can appease whatever god is causing the apocalypse. It's bullshit but this particular cult, if it is them, has tried this before with other packs on the west coast. I'd heard rumours that they were coming but I didn't think they'd pick you."

Oh, well, that was just lovely.

 

As usual in situations like these, no one was too sure on how to start the process of defeating this week's big bad. The devising of the plan was almost always placed firmly on Stiles' shoulders since he was the only one with both a conscience and more than half a brain but what with all the threats of ritualistic sacrifice and the fact that Isaac was  _ humming _ , he could barely come up with a 'pla'.

It was storming outside now; a mixture of snow and rain hammered against the windows and prowled over the roof with a constant whooshing noise. The house seemed to rattle with every crash of wind that rolled over them like waves, receding for a quiet moment, letting them think the worst of it was over before slamming back into them. If Stiles hadn't seen first hand the care that Derek and the pack had put into building this house, he might have thought it would give out. 

Their next move wasn't fully decided on. Derek, Boyd and Lydia had slinked out of the room not long ago to talk tactics and it stung a little that Stiles wasn't invited. He understood (they were talking about how to take down the cult that was out to get him) but being left out gave him a sour taste in his mouth. Stiles was a smart dude; he could help. There was something else inside of him, too - something that made him feel like he had a right to be involved in that conversation and not just because the consequences of failing directly involved him. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but part of him was screaming to storm right into Derek's office and demand to know what was going down. 

"You look constipated."

Stiles snapped out of his daydream and blinked at Cora. Lydia had cut her hair recently and it still made Stiles do a double take whenever he saw her. She looked a lot more grown up and Stiles wondered if that was what Laura had looked like, all sharp edges and soft lips. He wondered what the other Hales had looked like. 

"You're such a lovely person," Stiles said with mock sincerity, "You make me feel safe and appreciated."

"You make me feel even more of a lesbian," She countered and Stiles cracked, a tiny smile curving onto his lips. 

It was then that he remembered what Lydia had told him that morning. "Hey, thanks for dealing with Lucas for me. I thought ripping throats out with teeth was your brother's thing but that's pretty gross and pretty cool."

Cora shrugged and looked down at her shoes. She'd kill anyone who voiced it out loud, but it was no secret to anyone who knew the girl how shy she was. Now that her hair was shorter, she didn't have that to hide behind anymore. Instead, she sulked down into the sofa and crossed her arms over her chest. "It was nothing."

Stiles frowned. It wasn't like Cora was the most conversational of people but there was something about the look on her face that made Stiles want to push. She looked troubled or worried, even, like maybe she had something she wanted to share but didn't know how or even if she should. Stiles could make that easier. "What is it?"

"Nothing, just," She began but shook her head. "It's nothing. And none of my business, but..."

The girl reached out and took hold of Derek's jacket by the collar. She felt the material under her fingertips and Stiles had the urge to blush. Her face was so open and vulnerable that it almost scared Stiles and he watched with wide and silent eyes as she took in Stiles' appearance and even some of his scent in long, laboured breaths that seemed to fray her sharp edges and make her seem more comfortable in her skin. 

"You know," She eventually sighed, standing up and brushing down her jeans, "Lydia said these cult members were either human or stupid. Maybe I should go remind her that sometimes people can be both."

Stiles watched as Cora stalked out of the room, a perfect imitation of her older brother when he thought he knew better than everyone else. Hales were weird. And some were creepy. One in particular. 

"By the way," Isaac had stopped humming now and was hanging over the back of the sofa, his chin resting on his crossed arms and an infuriating smile on his face that had somehow gotten less infuriating with time. Stiles didn't really understand it. "I found your precious hoodie so you can stop using that as an excuse to let Derek scent mark you - unless you're into it, of course."

 

**4.**

When Stiles thought of stakeouts, he thought of deep, undercover missions, of renting out an entire apartment building and taking photos of perps from high above through specialist lenses that cost more than an entire college education. He thought of sneaking around in the dead of night, dressed all in black with his face masked with paint, camouflaging into the darkness and taking every secret his enemy had without a word. 

When Stiles thought of stakeouts, he did not think of shivering in the passenger side of the Camaro in his stupid hoodie while Derek looked at bedsheets on Amazon. 

"Which ones do you like?" 

Quitting his pouting at the sound of Derek's voice, Stiles turned his head towards the man with a sour look on his face. "What?"

"The bedsheets," Derek pressed, pointing his phone screen in Stiles' direction as if that was a perfectly reasonable question to be asking him. "Which ones do you like?" 

Stiles shrugged, "I don't know, the blue ones?"

From the look on Derek's face, you'd think Stiles had just told him he'd boned his sister. "They're welkin blue."

"Uh, same thing."

"It's not the same thing, Stiles."

Stiles groaned and pulled his hood up. He was happy to have his jacket back - the little red riding hood thing felt kind of iconic at this point - but that didn't stop him missing getting to wear Derek's. It hadn't even been a thing, really. Derek just didn't want Stiles to be cold that time in the woods and after Stiles stayed the weekend (they were not roomies) it just made sense to continue wearing the leather jacket. It wasn't like Derek was going out anywhere; all the guy really did was sit in, watch daytime tv and brood. 

It wasn't a thing - but Stiles still missed it. 

The jacket seemed to be doing okay, though. It was on Derek's body which Stiles imagined must be a nice place to be. If the jacket had to be on someone else's body other than his own, he'd want it to be Derek's. Plus, that meant Derek could top up the scent which Stiles totally wasn't creepily drinking up whenever the wolves were out of judgement shot. 

Late at night he sometimes wondered why he enjoyed Derek's scent so much, what with him being a normal human and all. Scott talked about getting off on Allison's scent alone which was unbelievably horrifying to hear but Scott was a werewolf and werewolves did weird shit with their noses. Maybe they were just naturally perverts and all wolves did that kind of thing, who was Stiles to judge? He couldn't imagine his sniffing thing with Derek being anything like Scott's sniffing thing with Allison and frankly, he didn't want to. Stiles was probably just a bit weird himself and the whole thing meant nothing. He was just a creep and he was okay with that. 

Speaking of creeps...

Stiles propped his legs up on the seat and fiddled with his thumbnail. A part of it was peeling off and it had been irritating the life out of him all day. "So," He said, bringing his hangnail up to his mouth and starting to gnaw on it in a way that must have been obnoxious. "What was that book your pervert uncle took and why did he want it? What was he right about?"

From the corner of his eyes, Derek watched Stiles carefully, "Why do you care?"

Stiles shrugged and continued chewing at his finger, trying his best to clip the torturous straggler off but to no avail. "Just curious," He mumbled, finger too in his mouth for his words to come out as anything more than garbled. "But, y'know, also, every time you and your uncle do super secret stuff together it tends to go wrong pretty quickly. And, like, drastically wrong - not just a little wrong."

He kept working on the nail, feeling his temper rise with every agitating twinge the determined little bastard gave. It was not going to break but neither was Stiles. 

Derek growled and Stiles only had a moment to look up in shock, thumb popping out of his mouth, before the wolf was grasping said thumb and bringing it up to his own mouth. Razor sharp, definitely not human teeth made quick work of the hangnail, clipping it off but Stiles couldn't bring himself to pull his digit away and Derek didn't look to be making a move either. The pair sat in silence, Stiles' thumb slowly dragging out of Derek's wet and dangerous mouth. He pressed the pad to Derek's lips for a short moment before pulling it away and stared on, mouth now more than a little dry. 

"Uh," Stiles breathed, taken off guard by the action. Derek had only helped, got rid of the hangnail because Stiles' incessant chewing was probably vexing him but it had still left the boy speechless. Stiles Stilinski's spity, gnawed on thumb had been inside Derek Hale's mouth. That was not something that should have been turning him on. "Thanks..."

The atmosphere inside the car had done a swift one-eighty and Stiles was feeling a little off balance. Everything felt smaller, more cramped and warmer than it had been only moments before. He was attracted to Derek; that was one of the only constants left in his life but it rarely felt like this. He rarely felt pinned by it. Derek's eyes were burning into Stiles' and he couldn't look away. He felt drawn to the wolf, like everything in his body was egging him on, pushing him forward and cheering for him to do it - for him to climb over the gear stick and straddle Derek's hips no matter how many bumps or bruised the tight car gave him. The urge was magnetic and hypnotic and if Stiles didn't know any better he'd think he was back in that sweaty nightclub being unwillingly seduced by that perverted piece of shit again except this time he  _ was _ willing and this was Derek he was with.

"Stiles," Derek rasped and he sounded wrecked, "You need to stop doing that."

The feeling that washed over Stiles then was like a bucket of ice cold water being upended over his head. Pure mortification flashed through his veins in spasms and, not for the first time in his spectacularly crappy life, Stiles wanted to die. 

There was no doubt in Stiles' mind that he had been filling up Derek's very expensive care with his teenage sex stink this entire time.

Cheeks burning furiously, he looked out of the passenger side window and tried to play it cool while nonchalantly winding the window down. Maybe if he got some air flowing it would help to blow away his eternal shame. "I'm a teenager, Derek. Let me live. And besides," He pointed his finger in Derek's direction but continued to look out of the window. "You never answered my question."

Stiles heard the alpha huff and a dull clunking sound. He skitted his eyes to the side and saw that Derek had smushed his face into the steering wheel. "Why can't you just leave things alone?"

"Why did you get so bad at stonewalling me?" Stiles countered and swivelled in his seat so he could fix Derek with his best 'taking no shit' stare, his embarrassment from only a few seconds earlier gone with the cold breeze that flooded the Camaro. Whatever Derek was hiding must have been something pretty dumb if he was trying to deter him so much and with the prospect of making the wolf squirm (not like that) in front of him, there was no time to reflect on any humiliating scents he might or might not be giving off. "Come on, Derek. We’re better than this. Spill."

"It's really none of your business, Stiles," He sighed into the steering wheel.

Maybe so, but that didn't mean Stiles wasn't willing to meddle. Still, there was something in the way Peter had acted with him that made Stiles think that there was at least something involving Stiles going on. Peter liked to play with people when he knew something they didn't. "I feel like it might be my business and that's why you don't want to tell me."

"It's personal."

"A personal thing that you'll willingly discuss with Peter?"

"A personal family thing."

"If it was a personal family thing you'd talk to Cora instead of Peter." Which... could be true. Stiles wasn't sure Derek and Cora had the sort of sibling relationship he had once had with Scott, telling the other everything that came to mind but he'd like to think that Derek would feel more comfortable confiding with his sister than his manipulative and deranged uncle. "If you're trusting Peter with something over Cora, I'm seriously side-eyeing you right now. That's a dumb fucking move my dude and you should know better."

Derek lifted back up and gripped his hands on the wheel, knuckles going white and squeezing the instrument beneath them so hard that it groaned in a low, grumbling protest. "Just," Closing his eyes, the despairing man exhaled through his nose and Stiles knew that look; that was his 'If I kill Stiles his father will put me in jail again' look. "Let me think."

"Does that mean you're going to tell me?"

"Stiles!"

He raised his hands to try and placate the wolf before he ended up as dog food. He already had enough people trying to kill him. "Okay, okay; I'll shut up."

As it turned out, winding the window down the whole way was a mistake. The icy winter air made Stiles feel like he was trapped in the middle school freezer again after Jackson had pushed him in there when they were kids. It wasn't pleasant and neither was this. 

It wasn't storming like it had been on Monday but the weather was still pretty bad. It was Thursday now and though Stiles had suggested they wait the one more day until the weekend to have their little stakeout, he had been overruled by a tag team of Derek and Scott who were both equally anxious to get rid of the threat to Stiles' life as soon as possible, despite the fact that the weather was supposed to let up a little tomorrow. Stiles was kind of into it, though. It wasn't every day he got to see his best friend and his crush not trying to kill each other for five minutes. 

So, that was why he was sat shivering in the Camaro instead of curled up in his bed, praying not to be ritually sacrificed. He guessed having a big, strong, probably very girthy - stop it, Stiles - werewolf there to act as his bodyguard was probably the safest way he could spend the evening, even if he was staring at an office building that could potentially be holding the very people that wanted to kill him, but he'd much rather have Derek protect him from inside his bed. Yes, there could be a lot of safe things done in there. 

Dammit, Stiles. 

Stiles shivered, trying to tuck his hands under his armpits for warmth and mashed his face into his knees. He wondered what was going on inside Derek's head. It was obvious Derek had a lot of secrets and Stiles didn't know if he ever wanted to see exactly what went on in that guy's brain but surely whatever Peter had been getting at on Monday night couldn't have been complicated enough for Derek to be mulling over it this long. 

Then again, it was Derek he was talking about; that guy could mull to the moon and back.

He was about to ask if Derek was nearly done with his brooding when he felt something heavy and warm and oh so familiar resting on his shoulders. He peeked to the side and tried to hide his bashful smile as he made eye contact with Derek.

Derek just grunted. "You look cold."

"You look like you have something to share."

Derek sighed and shook his head but there was a faint whisper of a smile on his lips and Stiles sank back into the jacket. He was right; Derek's scent had been topped up and all at once it was submerging him, swamping his senses to the point that he nearly felt his eyes roll back. He barely noticed Derek push the window back up. 

"You know that you're pack, right?" Now that took Stiles off guard. He guessed the look on his face had given Derek his answer and he also guessed that Derek didn't like it. "Stiles, of course, you're pack. For a smart guy, you can be really stupid sometimes."

The boy looked away uncomfortably and felt a burst of irritation threatening to bubble to the surface. "I'm not a wolf and while an honorary position is nice and all, I think I'd prefer it if we called me what I am: Scott's plus-one."

"Scott's plus-one is Allison," Derek chuckled and the noise was nice, even if Stiles really, really didn't want to admit it. 

Stiles swatted at him, "You know what I mean."

"Well, you are pack," He said, staring at Stiles so earnestly that he felt his own heart give a little squeeze. "And, in packs, different people have different ranks and positions."

"Alphas, betas, omegas," Stiles listed off on his fingers while he curled deeper into the jacket. His body was a little contorted; his legs stayed bunched up on the seat, damp and dirty sneakers poking out over the edge while his loose laces dangled over the side, his torso was twisted so that his left shoulder was pressed against the seat and his nose was equally pressed into Derek's jacket, the material hiding part of his face. He watched Derek with gentle eyes through thick and heavy lashes, waiting patiently for Derek to finally find his words. 

"Yes," He nodded and his voice sounded kind of like a teacher that was slowly explaining something complicated to a student but Stiles didn't think the tone was for his benefit. "But there are other roles, too. More important roles. You rank a little higher than the betas and Peter was just being his usual self about it. It's complicated and it's not anything you need to worry yourself with but just know that you're pack and we're all here to take care of you. We won't let anyone hurt you. I promise you that."

A warm sensation had started to travel its way through Stiles' chest and was currently tieing into all sorts of different types of knots in Stiles' stomach. He tried to act cool about Derek's little speech but he was sure his neck and cheeks must be a dusted pink colour by now. It felt like all he did these days was run for his life and blush like some messy teenager in a romance novel. To be fair, Stiles  _ was _ a messy teenager but his life was more H. P. Lovecraft than Jane Austen. 

Stiles gave a half smile, jabbing Derek lightly in the thigh with his finger, "Thanks, but that doesn't really tell me anything other than you and your weirdo uncle are talking about me when I'm not around."

It was raining outside, the drops thrumming against the windshield in a rhythmic way that was strangely comforting and soothing and yet somehow everything still managed to seem quiet. The inside of the car was still and Stiles was content to sit there in the silence despite all the secrets he had yet to uncover from Derek, listening only to the rain against the windows and the gentle in and out of Derek's breathing. 

"You can sleep if you want. I'll wake you if there's any movement from the building."

Stiles was going to nod but he hadn't been getting enough sleep lately and suddenly his head felt all too heavy. Instead, he snuggled deeper into the searing warmth of Derek's jacket and just like that first bitter morning when he had run to Derek for safety from the cult, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off to the scent of his alpha. 

 

**5.**

Agony; that was the first thing he registered when he came to. 

A rancid, burning stench clogged the air that slid into Stiles' lungs, slimy and curdled to the point that his gag reflex alone could have woken his from his passed out state. It was putrid, sickening and suddenly Stiles' reptile brain was screaming for him to run; danger was close. 

He moved his legs - or, he tried to move his legs. The pain that burst through him at the aborted action was enough to make him give a choked off scream, eyes dampening with unshed tears. He knew he was hurt from the second he first heard muffled voices in the distance as the darkness of unconscious slowly began to taper away but this was something else. He felt like he was broken, like he'd been thrown into a lion's den and ripped apart, limb from limb. 

It wouldn't surprise Stiles if he looked down and saw only ragged strips of torn flesh in the space where his legs used to be - the pain was that unbearable. 

A groan unintentionally passed his lips and he clasped an aching hand over his mouth. Last time he checked, he was asleep in Derek's car and he was pretty sure Derek wouldn't have done this to him which meant he was most likely in the presence of some really bad dudes - some really bad  _ culty _ dudes. 

_ Okay, time to assess the injuries _ , he thought while simultaneously suppressing the urge to scream; how was this his life?

There was something seriously wrong with his legs. He couldn't see them and wasn't going to risk looking up but he'd felt pain before and his legs were currently surpassing anything he’d experienced in the past. His wrist was probably sprained, a warm, sticky substance was caked to his face and he was pretty sure he'd bitten a chunk out of his tongue. Other than that he was okay.

At least he was alive. 

As for his location, he had no idea where he was. All he could see was the dark night sky full of twinkling stars that winked at him, mocking him and even that he was squinting at through the slits of his eyes. Gradually, he inched his head to the side and tried to catch a glimpse of his surroundings. It was then that he noticed he was on the forest floor - possibly the preserve? - and the source of that wretched, stomach churning smell made itself clear:

They were burning bodies. 

There were eight people standing around the fire that he could see but the woods were thick and it was impossible to tell if more were lurking in the trees that surrounded them. It would be stupid to run - if his mangled legs would even allow that - and there was nowhere to run to. He thought he was in the preserve but really, he could be in any old wood. Who knew how long he had been out of it. He may have even been outside of California by now. 

"Oh, you're awake."

Stiles tried to clench his eyes closed again - as if that would help - but it was too late. The man grasped Stiles by the front of his soggy, blood-soaked shirt and hauled him up. His legs screamed in objection, the shattered bones grinding on each other with every torturous movement. It was hell. He'd never experienced anything as excruciating as that and as his attacker lifted him higher he noticed with blood-chilling horror that his legs were twisted and mangled in the steel jaws for two, sinister bear traps. 

This was bad. 

This was very, very bad. 

No matter how hard he fought, lashing his arms out left and right, even remembering some of the self-defence moves he'd learnt for this very situation, nothing connected and nothing worked to make the man unhand him. He was dragged across the ground and sobbed when the bear traps got caught on the uneven ground, tugging with wet snapping sounds against what remained of his legs. 

"They're gonna kill you," Stiles rasped between shaky breaths. He didn't want to cry and show weakness but the pain was too much. He couldn't hold back the tears but even as he wailed in agony, he refused to beg. There was no way he'd pander to them and get down on his knees. Crying didn't matter as long as he stayed mad. 

The man chuckled and smiled down at Stiles with his mouth full of broken teeth. Stiles wondered if he'd been in the fight at the bar that night; his dentistry looked suspiciously like Cora's handiwork. The guy's voice was wet and gargley, like he really needed to cough something up and one of his eyes was darker than the other, kind of like it was dying. Stiles hoped it was painful. "I don't think they will, kid."

Stiles attempted a laugh but he had a suspicion it came out more of a sob. "Then you clearly don't know my friends. Did our little get together at the bar not chase you off?"

"Not at all," Dead Eye smirked and tugged Stiles higher again, making him whimper despite himself. "Our men are willing to die for our cause," He paused and smiled a wide and broken smile. "And of course, we can always recruit more. It's the end of the world, after all; everyone wants to do their bit."

"You're crazy," Stiles spat, his cheeks flaming and wet. 

"That's ableist."

Dead Eye threw Stiles forward and he landed on something hard, coarse and scratchy. His landing grazed his face but he could hardly think about any of the extra injuries he was receiving because the pain in his legs was too loud and completely consuming. There was no room for thought of anything else. 

Somehow, he managed to roll onto his back, trying to scramble away on his useless legs. That's when he noticed what he was laying on; a large, round, seemingly dead stump - the Nemeton. 

That was good. That meant he was still in Beacon Hills and that meant:

"My friends  _ are _ going to kill you," He repeated and through the bloodied mess that was his face, he smiled, wide and beaming. "You're dead. Now, why don't you get on with telling me your cliche bad guy plan while we wait for the wolves to get here? I'd like to see you throw them around."

Some of the men that had surrounded the burning corpse had begun to crowd around the Nemeton instead and had been gawking at him like they were watching something play out on their television. There was a level of disconnect from the situation that made Stiles feel uneasy but a twisted thrill whirled to life in his stomach when a few of the men looked around at each other, nervous.

Lydia had been right; he was sure of it. If not all of them, the majority of the cult members were human from what Stiles could tell. He'd spent a lot of time around the supernatural and eventually it because more than easy to be able to tell the difference between someone like him and someone like them - and these were like him. 

They were human and humans got scared - especially when the threat of a pack of vengeful werewolves was on the table. He doubted any of them had any real experience fighting a pack. If they did, they would have known to use wolfsbane in their bullets. The fact that they were burning their dead from said werewolf pack just meters away probably wasn't all that good for morale either. Stiles liked his chances. 

"Stiles, don't you get it?" Dead Eye asked, sounding almost sympathetic. "They're not coming to save you. Hell, that's the whole reason we picked you! Do you know how many alpha mates we've tried to capture for our sacrifice? The answer is a lot and it's all ended horribly. Packs don't react well to someone giving the side eye to their alpha mate, never mind a full cult trying to ritualistically kill them.

"But then you came along and everything fell into place. You're perfect! Your alpha hasn't even claimed you, that's how little you mean to him. Nobody is coming for you, Stiles. I'm sorry but they're just not."

Stiles stared on, his mind numb to the pain in his legs. It was like the tide had washed over them, hiding the mangled remains from view and from his cares. he felt like even his head might be underwater. He could hear Dead Eye speaking but he sounded far away and Stiles just stared, feeling... defeated. 

Was he telling the truth? Could Stiles really believe the words of a deranged cult leader he had known all of five minutes and was dead set on killing him to save the world from the apocalypse? It matched up with what Derek had told him just moments before he had fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of the agonising pain that was to come. But Dead Eye had mentioned something about claiming and Derek had definitely never done that - and he would have, right?

Stiles stared blankly up at Dead Eye.

It was Derek.  _ Of course, he wouldn't claim Stiles _ . 

Since when did Derek let himself have anything? It wouldn’t matter if the wolf was head over heels with Stiles, he’d still push him away with some dumb excuse about how he was bad and broke everything he touched. Derek was a drama queen who refused to allow himself nice things and Stiles knew that even if Derek didn’t feel a thing for him, there was no way he would let Stiles die here tonight. 

Besides, Stiles had done some light reading on alpha mates back when Scott was first turned to try and reason with himself why his best friend was so obsessed with his homicidal girlfriend. He knew what an alpha mate meant to an alpha and suddenly -  _ oh _ , suddenly - the pack’s little quips about scent marking and the jacket and Derek’s mother made sense. 

They knew. 

Those little shits knew. 

“Why are you smiling?” One of the other cult members asked. This one was a woman, small, round and uneasy looking. “Don, he shouldn’t be smiling.”

A laugh burst from Stiles’ mouth and he covered it with his damaged hand, not even wincing at the protest from his sprained wrist. “What sort of a name is Don?”

Stiles barely got a chance to finish his wave of hysterical - most likely pain induced - laughter because suddenly there was a clap of monstrous sound so loud that Stiles thought the sky had cracked open and all this bullshit talk of an apocalypse wasn’t such bullshit after all. 

But the sound wasn’t coming from the sky. It was coming from the trees. 

Derek’s howl had silenced everyone gathered around the putrid burning bodies of the cult’s dead and the nemeton but only for a moment. As if rehearsed, the entire congregation broke into screams and yells of panic. Some of the members ran for weapons while others made off into the trees. Stiles didn’t blame them; if his legs weren’t fucked and he was in their position, he’d be running too. 

Dead Eye Don was frantically trying to calm his followers down. He forcefully grabbed one young man who didn’t look much older than Stiles and bore a striking resemblance to Isaac in more ways than one. The boy cowered as he was hauled back from the treeline and shoved towards Stiles. 

“We have to do it now!” Don ordered and Stiles was being dragged again, moved harshly into the dead centre of the nemeton. Don straddled him, meaty thighs resting either side of his hips.

“Get off me,” Stiles yelled but there wasn’t much he could do with his legs the way they were. He wouldn’t go down easy, though; he promised himself that. 

Don was panting, fear induced sweat pooling on his greasy forehead and, remarkably, he did look sorry as he pinned Stiles’ arms above his head. Isaac 2.0 took over holding them. With his own hands now free, Don pulled something from his belt - something long and silver and shining in the moonlight. 

“This isn’t personal, kid.”

Stiles thrashed. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” He gasped, uselessly trying to worm away from the knife’s deadly blade. “Let’s not do anything rash. I’m sure we can find a way to resolve this less sacrificially.”

“Your blood is pure, Stiles. The nemeton needs it to save us.” There was a crazed look in Don’s eyes and -  _ oh, God  _ \- this was it. He was going to die. He had just found out he was kind of werewolf married to Derek fucking Hale and he was going to die. 

 

Everything was in chaos. 

Stiles had no idea how much blood he’d lost. His legs were grotesque but it was the wound on his stomach that he was most concerned about right now. Don had raised his blade high above his head while Isaac 2.0 shuddered and whispered his apologies and the knife had come down, plunging deep into Stiles’ body. 

He’d been lucky, he thought. Derek had broken through the treeline and pounced on Don just as he was bringing the blade down. The attack had made the man’s aim off and the knife had missed it’s mark, still causing a lot of damage but not shredding through his heart like had been planned. 

Derek and Don had tussled with each other but not for long - Don was only human after all - and despite Stiles’ condition, with what little strength he had left, he found the will to roll onto his torn and punctured stomach. He held himself up on shaky arms, the knife gripped in one hand and raised it up in a sickening imitation of Don’s earlier action. 

It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. 

The pack were handling the rest of the cult - letting those who had gotten in way over their heads flee and dispatching those who stayed to fight. Distantly, in his hazy and near death state, Stiles felt surprised to see Peter helping out. Maybe that was the alpha mate thing; Peter felt obliged because Stiles was a higher rank. 

Stiles huffed a laugh,  _ Or, more likely, Peter just likes killing people _ . 

“Hey, stay with me now.” Stiles blinked up at Derek in laboured motions, his eyes blurring in and out of focus. Derek was handsome, even with blood matted in his beard and splattered over his lined forehead. Stiles reached up and tried to squash those lines down. Derek shouldn’t have been worrying about him - he was always okay. A little maimed, but okay.

Then Derek was moving away and Stiles frowned in disappointment. “Yours isn’t going to heal as quick as mine but I promise you’ll be okay. Just hang on for me, Stiles.”

If it was possible, the pain for having the bear traps removed from his legs was worse than when he first realised they were there in the first place. Stiles wailed and dug his fingers into the nemeton, feeling his nails splinter and bleed. 

“You’re okay,” Derek soothed and as he said it he felt the pain leech away. “You’re okay.”

In seconds Scott and Lydia were beside them, taking charge of the situation. Scott ordered them to make tourniquets for his legs and they did so; Derek took off his belt and tied it above one of Stiles’ wounds while Lydia used her bra to tie the other. Stiles was pretty sure he saw Scott blush but she didn’t seem to give a fuck. Once that was done they applied pressure to the cut on Stiles’ stomach, using his hoodie to try and stop the bleeding. It wasn’t doing much good but an ambulance was on its way. 

“I’m so sorry, Stiles.” Derek looked wrecked and now with the main threat dealt with he could properly take in Derek’s own injuries. He had burn marks on his body, ones that hadn’t yet healed and his clothes were burnt away in large, flesh revealing chunks. That was disturbing. He looked like he’d been in an explosion. Or a fire. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Stiles frowned, bringing his fucked up fingers to touch one of Derek’s own wounds. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout?” He slurred. 

“I said I wouldn’t let anything hurt you,” Derek whispered, frantically. If they had an audience, Stiles didn’t notice it and Derek didn’t seem to care either. “I’m supposed to protect you. If it wasn’t for me they would have left you alone-”

“Ugh, shut up, sourwolf,” Stiles’ head rolled to the side with exhaustion. It was too heavy to hold up anymore and this way he could show how utterly exasperated Derek made him feel. “It’s jus’ a lil ritualistic sacrificin’. Could happen to anyone.”

Derek shook his head and rested his hand in Stiles’ hair. His thumb caressed Stiles’ hairline in such a gentle way that if Stiles wasn’t half out of his mind on blood loss, he’d have felt like the most precious thing in the world at that moment. “I should have just told you. You would have been able to fight them then, instead of having them catch you off guard.”

“Wha’ happened to your face?” Stiles asked, eyelids drooping.

“Hey, hey, no! You stay awake,” Derek scolded, giving Stiles a firm shake that would have hurt if his pain wasn’t being werewolf drained. “They blew up the Camaro but I’m okay. I managed to grab this, too. It feels like you get to wear it more than me these days, anyway.”

One of the other wolves - he thought it was Boyd - took over the pain control while Derek eased his way out of his jacket, revealing more of where his shirt was scorched by the blast. He took the coat and gently placed it on top of Stiles and -  _ fuck _ \- he almost cried at that.

The jacket was so warm and safe and  _ his _ . Oh, Stiles was  _ so _ keeping the jacket. It belonged to him now. He didn’t care what happened between him and Derek; Derek could reject him as his mate for all he cared, he was keeping that shit.

“Hey, Derek?” He asked. He felt himself become lighter, maybe like someone was carrying him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you scent marking me?”

“Shut up.”

 

**+1.**

Stiles smiled down at the picture of his mother where it sat proudly on Derek’s - no  _ their _ \- bedside table (He was going to have to remember to stop referring to things as  _ Derek’s _ .). She looked perfect in her new home; grinning with cute little dimples across their bedroom. Yes, Stiles thought she’d do great there. 

“Have you still not unpacked your clothes?”

Derek was stood in the doorway to their bathroom, his dark hair wet and dripping down onto his tan shoulders. He looked like a fucking God and the way the water from their shower clung to his naked body was surely some form of sacrilege.

From the way Stiles’ body was reacting, you wouldn’t think the pair had just spent a good hour boning in the shower. 

“I only have one box left,” Stiles defended, equally naked. “That just happens to be the box with all my clothes in.”

“Well, hurry up and  _ unpack _ because we’re meeting Lydia and Cora at the restaurant in half an hour and you can’t go over there with your junk hanging out. Not after last time.” One thing Stiles had learnt from his time being mated to Derek was that he was one hell of a whiner. He hadn’t expected it, but it was true: Derek Hale was a whiny baby. He whined about everything and he especially whined about being on time (which Stiles was  _ terrible _ at). 

Stiles made a disgruntled squeaking noise and turned on his heels towards Derek with his finger held in the air. “Uh, excuse me, asshole, but I’m not the only one with my dick out right now.”

“At least I know where my clothes are,” Derek grumbled. 

“And so do I,” He pointed to where his clothes were located. “Box!”

It was probably wise to  _ start _ getting dressed, at least; Derek was sure to start clapping his hands and yelling out the time every five minutes like the speaking clock if he didn’t.

Stiles went over to his last remaining packed box and started ripping off the packing tape in long, brown streaks. Derek flittered out of the room, probably off to irritate someone else - did he know he was still naked? - and Stiles was left alone to get to work. 

He unpacked his red hoodie and ditched it on the floor, then his blue hoodie, then his grey hoodie, purple hoodie, plaid, plaid, plaid, plaid, plai-

Stiles stopped and stared down at the box. 

 

“Five forty-fi-” Derek’s unnecessary reminder of the time was cut off, his hands frozen in mid air before he could get his final clap in. His eyes were fixed on Stiles, his mouth hanging open as his voice slowly tapered off to nothing. 

Stiles smiled, slow and wolfishly. 

“You- uh-” The alpha seemed lost for words, like the cat had caught his tongue. “The, uh, it’s five forty-five.”

“I know,” Stiles purred. 

He was sat on the bed, his knees underneath him in a seductive ‘V’ shape, completely naked except for Derek’s old, worn leather jacket. 

Stiles hadn’t seen it in a while. The moving process had been long and the jacket had been one of the first things he had packed when Derek had finally asked him to move in. Derek’s jacket had become sort of a comfort thing. He would sneakily give it back to him, making the wolf think he was finally getting his coat back but secretly he was just topping up that good scent. Then he would steal it away again, cuddling into it whenever Derek was banished from the Stilinski home. (What sort of a father doesn’t let a grown werewolf sleep in his son’s bed until said son is eighteen? Who behaves like that?) Anyway, Stiles hadn’t wanted it to get left behind so he made sure to pack it first. Then countless near death experiences and general unnecessary obstacles stood in Stiles’ way from claiming the pack home officially as his domain and - with all the sex he and Derek were having - he’d kind of forgotten about it. 

Still, he was glad to have it back. 

“My jacket,” Derek’s mouth bobbed open and closed like a fish. “You’re wearing my jacket.”

Stiles shrugged one shoulder, looking up at his mate through thick lashes and hooded lids. “I like to think of it as  _ our _ jacket.”

The wolf stared, completely out of it, for a moment longer before pulling himself from his daze. It was a valiant effort. “Five Fifty. We’re going to be late.”

Stiles just blinked back, using his big, brown eyes as a weapon. 

“The- you, uh, need to put clothes on so we can- you know-”

“What can we do, Derek?” He asked, gradually raising himself up on his knees. His legs were more toned now, strong and thick with muscle. He still had scars from the whole cult thing. “Tell me what we can do.”

Derek looked tempted - so,  _ so _ , tempted - but bless his heart, he was a trouper. “That sounds nice and believe me, I want to see where this conversation will go later, but we have ten minutes to be at the restaurant an- mhffsdhbshf!”

The kiss attack was a dirty move and would get anyone disqualified on normal grounds but this was Stiles who was playing and he wasn’t opposed to cheating if it got him what he wanted. Derek groaned and sank into the kiss, his hands moving to grip Stiles’ hips with so much pressure that he thought he might shatter. 

“Yeah, baby,” Stiles whispered and pulled Derek closer, his fingers scraping over the wolf’s stubble, “We’ve got time.”

Those, evidently, were the wrong words a Derek broke away from the kiss, much to Stiles’ displeasure. “Jacket off, clothes on. We can do this after our date.” Derek’s voice was firm, almost hinting on angry but Stiles could tell it was a self-reprimand. Derek was trying to regain some self-control. 

“No,” Stiles pouted and turned away, flashing Derek his bare ass. 

Derek growled, “ _ Stiles _ .”

“ _ No _ ,” He said, more firmly and dived onto his stomach, clinging to the jacket with all his might. 

As he had anticipated, Derek bounced down after him and tried to pull the jacket off of Stiles’ wriggling form. “We’re going to be  _ late _ , Stiles. Can’t you behave for five minutes?”

“I thought you liked it when I misbehave,” Stiles hummed and, with a stroke of evil genius, he wiggled his ass back. 

Derek was flat on top of him, their bare bodies pressed together from head to toe while Derek tried to battle his jacket away from his defiant and troublesome mate. When Stiles arched his spine and pushed out his ass it was in the perfect position to rub against Derek’s still hard cock. 

“That’s cheating,” Derek complained but his voice had dropped an octave and gained that seductive grumbling quality it got whenever he was horny. “You cheated.”

Rolling his hips again and letting a pleased little moan fall off his lips, he looked over his shoulder at Derek who’s eyes were blown and cheeks were pinkening. “I did - but isn’t this way more fun?”

Derek didn’t answer at first. Instead, he took one of Stiles’ hands and pinned it above him on the pillow. He used the other to brace himself on Stiles’ arm and slowly - so fucking slowly - rocked his hips in time with his mate’s. “I guess,” Derek breathed, leaning forward so his face was snug against the back of Stiles’ neck, his lips brushing against the boy’s ear. “I guess we can cancel.”

“Oh thank God.”

In seconds the pair had flipped and Stiles was hanging over the side of the bed, frantically rooting through  _ his _ bedside table, searching for the lube. Derek settled himself against the headboard and started steadily stroking himself while he watched Stiles’ swaying ass with interest. Then he paused, “Wait… did you unpack the lube before you unpacked your clothes?”

Stiles straightened back up, the bottle of lube clasped proudly in his outstretched hand. He fist pumped. “Hell yeah, I did! Okay,” He flipped the cap, “How do you want me?”

“On top. I wanna see you bounce.”

“Kinky,” Stiles waggled his eyebrows and squirted some of the cold lube onto his fingers and some into Derek’s hand for him to get himself wet. Climbing up onto his knees, Stiles lowered his hands between his legs and found his hole and breathing in calmly to relax, he gently pushed past the small ring of muscle and into his plunging heat.

He was still pretty loose from their fuck in the shower but it was better to be safe than sorry. Besides, Stiles thought it felt better the slicker he was. Weirdly, whenever he voiced that thought out loud, Derek would almost always roll his eyes back and cum. It was odd. 

“Hurry,” Derek ordered, still stroking his cock.

Stiles huffed and pushed in a second finger. “I thought we weren’t on a deadline anymore.”

A moan vibrated from Derek’s lips and Stiles raised his head, eyes wide and wanting. “You might not be,” The alpha panted, “But I am.”

 

Stiles was great at riding Derek. He always knew just how he wanted it but, to be fair, they’d had a lot of practice. The number of hours the two had spent together working out every last one of each other’s kinks, triggers and sweet spots was lost to Stiles and yet he still felt like he could recount every second he’d spent in Derek’s arms. 

“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek groaned, his hands helping guide his mate’s bounces at the same time as taking some of his weight. Stiles was a pro but he was still human and his legs started to ache after a while - and they had been at this for  _ a while _ . “I wanna fill you up so good, baby.”

All of Stiles’ nerve endings were singing and glowing like a warm, amber light and he flung his head back in ecstasy, baring his throat for his alpha. Derek’s mouth was immediately there, burning his name onto Stiles’ skin. He bit and sucked, marking his mate up good and it made something primal inside Stiles want to submit and keen for his mate. 

“Need it, Derek,” He whimpered, clenching his walls around Derek’s pumping cock as he rode him, eyes pressed closed from the intensity of it all. “Need it now.”

“I know, baby- _ fuck _ ,” The wolf cursed and gripped Stiles’ hips harder, no doubt leaving bruises. “I’m close. Shit. Look at you. You’ve got my jacket all covered in your sweat. Gonna smell like sex for weeks.”

“Gonna smell like us,” He countered, precum leaking from his aching tip. “Everyone’s gonna know what you do to me.”

That promise alone was all it took to finally push Derek over the edge and the wolf came with a deep, rumbling groan. He flipped Stiles so he was on his back and hammered out the rest of his orgasm, brutally fucking into his mate. Stiles let the sensations overtake him and went pliant, allowing Derek to take his fill. He came soon after, sobbing from the intense feeling and squirting all over his and Derek’s chests. 

By the time they had enough strength to check the time again, their date was long passed and they had a bunch of very angry voicemails on their phones but neither could bring themselves to care. 

Derek lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. Sweat was drying on his tanned chest and there were smears of white coating his abdomen but he made no move to clean it up and when he laughed, gentle and musical in the best kind of way, Stiles’ heart swelled. There were a lot of things in Stiles’ life that he loved. He had his pack, Derek, friends, a place he belonged - that was all great,  _ amazing _ , but hearing Derek laugh and smile so brightly that he could light even the darkest of rooms? Well, Stiles loved that best of all. 


End file.
